Hogan's Heroes: Hero's Welcome
by Syl
Summary: Immediately following Pearl Harbor, a young, gifted black man reaches a crossroads and must make a decision regarding the path to take in life
1. Chapter 1

**Summary**: Immediately following Pearl Harbor, a young, gifted black man reaches a crossroads and must make a decision regarding the path to take in life.

**Disclaimer:** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!

**Copyright**: February 2008

Hero's Welcome

by Syl Francis

* * *

James Kinchloe stood outside the Army recruiting office, shivering in the frigid December morning. Detroit winters could be brutal, and the winter of 1941 was certainly living up to expectations. He had fully expected to be first in line this morning, but to his surprise the line was already snaking around the corner by the time he arrived at 6:00 a.m.

"I guess we're not the only ones who thought of this, huh?"

Kinchloe turned toward the voice behind him. A young man, slightly built, gave him a chagrinned look. Kinchloe smiled at him quizzically. The young man took this as an invitation to talk.

"I mean, I guess I should've thought of it," he said eagerly. "What with Pearl Harbor, and Roosevelt declaring war and all--" He stopped, an idea dawning. "Good gosh! I'm supposed to be at work in another half hour. You think we'll be done by then?"

Kinchloe shrugged. "I doubt it."

The young man looked suddenly nervous. "My boss is a real stickler for timeliness."

Kinchloe gave him a penetrating look. "Do you think the Army will allow you to go back to work after you've raised your right hand and signed on the dotted line?" At the young man's stricken look, Kinchloe grinned. "No, I can see you haven't given that much thought."

The young man had taken on a sheepish look. "I guess I didn't think…just like Dad would say." He sighed and shrugged. "By the way, my name is Doyle. Mike Doyle." The two men shook hands.

"I'm James Kinchloe, but everybody calls me Kinch."

Doyle grinned. "I'd rather not say what everybody calls me…especially my dad. 'Doyle' or 'Mike' are plenty good enough, I guess."

They took a few steps forward.

"Hey, it looks like we're finally moving. Boy! I can hardly wait to tell my folks I enlisted. Will **_they_** be surprised. Especially my dad. I guess this'll show him I'm not just a screw-up."

They were stopped at the door by a hard-bitten military policeman. The MP blocked the door, giving Kinchloe a look of pure disgust.

"Hey, this ain't no 'Coloreds Only' recruiting station, boy." His accent spoke of the Deep South. "I think you'd better turn right around and leave—"

Doyle stepped in. "What are you talking about? Uncle Sam wants soldiers, and my friend here is ready to volunteer. What does it matter what the color of his skin is--?"

But Kinchloe stopped him from going any further. "That's okay, Doyle. I'm used to it." He began to walk away, but turned back and faced the MP. "One way or another, I'm going to fight for my country, whether my country wants me to or not." With that, Kinchloe disappeared into the morning traffic.

* * *

He walked blindly, automatically dodging other pedestrians, crossing against the light, narrowly being missed by a taxi that swerved at the last minute. Kinchloe barely heard the angry driver's tirade, continuing without stopping. 

_It's always like this_, he fumed. _A guy tries to do what's right, and someone always comes along and knocks him down. _

He thought of the war raging in Europe and the attack at Pearl Harbor, giving due consideration to the people living under the yoke of Nazism in Europe and Japanese imperialism in the Pacific.

_Well, what do I care if these two cats, Hitler and Tojo take over the world? It's not like my own country is giving me any breaks_.

As if in answer to his dark thoughts, he was accosted by a familiar voice.

"Yo! Kinch, my main man!" The owner of the voice materialized next to him—Buddy Freeman. As usual Freeman was dancing around Kinchloe, his energy unable to be contained by anything as mundane as a crowded Detroit sidewalk.

Kinchloe ignored him and kept on walking.

"Howya been, Kinch?" Freeman asked, his voice taking on its usual sing-songy rhythm. "Long time, no see!"

"More like six months, Buddy," Kinchloe said without turning around. "Isn't that how long the judge gave you this time?"

Kinchloe was suddenly grabbed by the arm and steered toward one of Freeman's favorite watering holes, The Horse Head Tavern. Struggling only half-heartedly, Kinchloe complained, "Look, Buddy! I don't have time--" But they had already reached the bar, and Freeman was ordering a couple of beers for them. "Beer?! Are you crazy? It's seven in the morning!"

"Like you said, Kinch…I've been in stir for six months. It's only fitting that you should buy me a beer in celebration of my being a **_Free Man_**, in both name and in fact." Freeman grinned proudly at his pun.

Kinch gave him a sour look. "Oh, brother." Rolling his eyes, Kinchloe glared at the painting of a scantily clad, buxom female with a horse's head, prominently displayed above the bar. "Hey, Pete!" Kinch addressed the bartender. "Make mine a coffee—black."

Pete nodded and poured a beer and coffee, placing them on the bar. "Nice to see you again, Kinch," he said quietly. "It's been awhile."

"Sorry, Pete…I've been a little busy. You know how it is."

"Sure…I know. Don't be a stranger." With a friendly nod, Pete was about to return to his duties but was interrupted by Freeman's sarcastic voice.

"Hey, it was nice to see you, too, Pete!"

Pete gave Freeman a dark look. "You just tell your pals, the Baxter brothers, that this place isn't for sale, you got that?" Pete turned to Kinchloe. "Be careful who you're seen with, Kinch. Some people aren't as understanding as I am."

"What are you talking about, Pete?" But Pete had turned his back and started setting up bottles and glasses. Perplexed, Kinchloe looked at Freeman. His friend was doing everything he could to avoid eye contact, however. "What's he talking about, Buddy?"

Kinchloe studied his suddenly fidgety friend, wondering what Freeman might have gotten himself into. He had known Freeman since grade school, but he had dropped out in high school. They managed to stay in touch, despite Freeman's tendency to spend more time in jail than out of it. After Kinchloe graduated, he noticed that Freeman always seemed to be either rolling in dough or down on his luck, hitting him up for enough cash to tide him over.

Since they were kids, Freeman had toyed with the idea of being a "player" in Detroit's glamorous underworld. He had made contacts with the Baxter brothers' organization, a local cartel that ran illegal gambling casinos, had a hand in the local black market, and was now apparently into extortion. Up until now, Kinchloe had assumed that Freeman was only running errands, playing lookout, and perhaps a few shadier dealings that he did not want to know about. However, if what Pete said was true, then Freeman was in deeper than even Kinchloe would have imagined.

While Kinchloe dressed in casual work clothes necessary for climbing telephone poles and doing other types of heavy, outdoor labor, Freeman would often make a grand entrance, wearing expensive jewelry and dressed sharply in the latest zoot suit fashion. At other times, he would disappear for months, serving yet another jail sentence.

As these thoughts and others flitted through Kinchloe's mind, he saw that Freeman had somehow managed to shrug his shoulders and keep drinking at the same time.

"Buddy, it's not going to work. Tell me what Pete's talking about." He paused, and then said threateningly, "This doesn't have anything to do with the last time you were sent up, does it?"

Choking at the accusation, Freeman took a moment to recover, and gave him an exaggerated look of hurt. "Kinch, how could you even say such a thing? Me--? Hurt Pete? Why we're best pals! Aren't we Pete?" He looked to Pete for confirmation, but the other man studiously ignored him. "Well, maybe not best pals, but Pete's my friend. Why, I would never do anything in the whole world to hurt—"

"Shut up, Buddy!" Pete said, whirling around and slamming his hands on the bar. "You know what your pals did, and you did nothing to stop them!"

"Me? But I had nothing to do with it, Pete. I swear on my mother's grave."

"Your mother's grave…" Pete snorted in disgust. He grabbed Freeman by the collar. "I outta kick your butt from here to next year!"

"What happened, Pete?" Kinchloe spoke quietly. He waited patiently as Pete cooled down and released his hold.

"His pals, the Baxter brothers, sent their goons over to my cousin Ernie's place—you know, the little coffee shop on West 79th—and broke up the joint. My cousin was laid up for three weeks afterward—concussion, broken ribs—he was pretty busted up." He glared at Freeman. "But it'll be a cold day in hell before he sells out to them. And me, for that matter! And you can tell your pals I said so!"

"Pete, I swear, I had nothing to do with it. I just got outta stir. You can ask Kinch here. He'll vouch for me."

Pete looked at Kinchloe, who nodded. "Yeah, Pete…Buddy just got out."

Pete nodded. "Okay, Buddy…maybe you weren't involved this time. But just remember…if you play with fire, you're gonna get burned. If you're in with the Baxters, don't bother stepping through that door again, 'cause you won't be welcome. Got it?"

Freeman nodded. "I got it, Pete."

"Good…remember what I said. Be careful who you're seen with, 'cause some people ain't as forgiving and understanding as I am."

After Pete turned back to the business of tending bar, Kinchloe gave Freeman a piercing look. "Buddy, just what **_did_** you do this last time that got you sent up for six months?"

"Kinch, how many times do I gotta tell ya? The whole thing was a premeditated miscarriage of justice! It was a setup, man! I was framed. I **_swear_** that's the truth."

"Buddy, you wouldn't know the truth if it jumped up and bit you." Kinchloe paid the tab. "Look, I've gotta go. I've got a few things to take care of!"

"Oh, yeah? What kinds of things?" Freeman asked

"Nothing you'd be interested in."

At Kinchloe's cryptic words, Freeman grabbed him by the sleeve and asked in low tone. "Hey, you don't have something goin' on, do you? I mean, the Baxter brothers didn't take you into the fold while I was away?"

"No, Buddy!" Kinchloe sounded exasperated. "How many times do I have to tell you? I'm **_not_** a player!" Glaring at his old friend, Kinchloe sighed and shrugged. "If you must know, I'm planning on enlisting in the army."

"The **_army_**?" Freeman looked shocked. "**_You_**? A **_soldier_**?" Freeman shook his head in disbelief. "What for, Kinch?

Kinchloe deliberately turned away from him, keeping his eyes focused on the "horse's head" mural above the bar.

"You wouldn't understand, Buddy," he muttered. He was not sure that he understood the reasons himself.

"You're damned right, I don't understand!" Freeman yelled. "Tell me, Kinch…just **_what_** has Whitey ever done for you that you feel you need to go and fight his war for him?"

"Look…I said you wouldn't understand!" Kinchloe said sharply. "But it's something I have to do." He paused, adding thoughtfully. "It's the right thing to do."

Freeman burst out laughing. "The right thing to do? Kinch, my man, ain't I taught you better? The right thing for a colored man to do is to survive—whatever it takes!" At Kinchloe's look of disgust at his selfishness, Freeman exploded in anger. "Look around you, Kinch! This here's a white man's world. He holds all the aces, man…while we've all been dealt from the bottom of the deck."

"Buddy, you don't know what you're talking about!" Kinchloe made a move to leave, but Freeman blocked him.

"Kinch, my man, with all your brains, don't you **_know_** yet? With all your hard work, haven't you **_learned _**nothing?" Freeman shook his head in disbelief. "Man, don't you see? Keeping your nose clean…talking like **_them_**--with your good grammar and big words--none of it **_matters_**. You will always be nothing but a colored man in whitey's eyes, fit only to be spit on."

Kinchloe tasted the bile in the back of his throat. He felt a caustic retort burning a hole in the lining of his stomach. Thoughts and ideas long held back were taking form, ready to spring forth fully grown and take up arms against every venal word that Freeman had uttered.

Kinchloe knew with all his soul that Freeman was wrong. He knew that this country—his home—was worth fighting for. If not for the centuries of injustice the white populace had imposed on his people, then at least for himself and his family. The United States was far from perfect, but what nation was?

And yet, in his heart Kinchloe heard the truth behind Freeman's words. His own father had fought in the Great War, serving in France with distinction. However, after the war instead of gratitude for his service, he returned home to find no jobs, no opportunities, and worse, the spread of the Ku Klux Klan. To add insult to injury, he and other returning black veterans were not allowed to eat in places that welcomed ex-German prisoners of war.

Unable to agree or disagree with Freeman's words, Kinchloe chose to simply walk away.

"You're a real piece of work, Buddy, you know that?" Pete said. "Kinch is probably the only real friend you've got—"

But Freeman was already out the door, trailing after Kinchloe in the late morning crowds. "Kinch! Hey, Kinch, don't be that way! I'm sorry…okay?" He reached for Kinchloe's arm, but the other man shook off his overtures.

"Okay, okay!" Freeman said, backing off. "I was just sayin' I'm sorry…No need to get so touchy." The two walked in silence for a few minutes, but after a couple of blocks, Freeman cleared his throat. "Um, Kinch, my man…I don't suppose you could spare your old pal a ten spot? Y'know…to tide me over till payday?"

"Payday?" Kinchloe snorted. "Since when have **_you_** ever done an honest day's work in your life?"

"Who said anything about honest work?" Freeman asked, a wide impish grin giving him a boyish look.

Kinchloe glared at him, but finally relented. _Buddy could be dangerously charming at times_, he admitted wryly as he handed over the money.

Excited, Freeman danced frenetically around him. "Kinch, my man, you'll never regret it!"

"I regret it already, Buddy. But, if it'll get you out of my hair, it's worth it…my man." He added the last somewhat ironically, but it was lost on Freeman.

"Look, Kinch…if there's ever anything I can do for you…**_Anything_**! You just name it, and it's done. Y'hear? You got Buddy Freeman's word on that, and that's as good as gold."

"You mean, Fool's gold," Kinchloe said under his breath, turning away.

"Oh, hey, Kinch! If you want, I could try and put in a good word for you with the Baxter brothers. I'm on my way to see them right now."

"You're on your way to--? After what Pete just told us?"

"Look, Kinch, I like Pete and all, but this is business. You understand, don't you?"

Kinchloe shook his head, disappointed. "Buddy, sometimes I don't think I know you anymore."

"Look, Kinch…it's not like Pete said. The Baxters are my friends. They helped my mama pay her heating bill one winter after the city turned off her gas. And that old couple, Flora and Nate DuBois…when the bank was gonna foreclose on their home, the Baxters paid off the mortgage company. No one else would've lifted a finger, but the Baxters did. They care about the community, Kinch."

"Yeah, Buddy…they're real pillars of society. Anyway, thanks, but no thanks. Like I said—"

"I know…I know," Freeman said with a sigh. "You're not a player. That's cool, man." But as he watched his friend melt into the crowd, he added sotto voce, "But it won't hurt to just put in a good word for you. No sir. Kinch, my man, you're as good as in with the Brotherhood!" Satisfied, Freeman crossed the street and made his way toward his morning appointment.

…

End of Part 1


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary**: Kinchloe expresses his anger to a trusted friend over the racism he must face and fight against; then, he's taken for a ride.

**Author's Note**: Thanks to my beta readers for their thoughtful comments and help. Also, thanks to the reviewers and to those readers who've sent me offline comments.

**Disclaimer:** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!

**Copyright**: February 2008

* * *

Hero's Welcome

by Syl Francis

**Chapter 2**

Meanwhile, Kinchloe headed in the direction of the only place where he had ever found solace from the world—Goldie's Gym. Entering, his senses were assaulted by the noisy din, even at this early hour, and the acrid smell of stale sweat. The place might have seen better days at some point in the far distant past, but Kinchloe doubted it. For as long as he had been coming here, it had looked like something only a rat could love. Still, it was home away from home, a place where a guy could come in and forget.

Waving at the regulars by way of greeting, Kinchloe headed straight for the lockers. Several called out friendly greetings as he passed through. He opened his locker, grabbed his workout clothes, and changed. Taking a deep breath to settle his nerves, he began taping his hands, taking extra care around the knuckles. Done, he headed out to the main gym floor and slowly warmed up.

Soon afterwards, he started on the heavy punching bag.

Blocking out the familiar sounds and smells of the gym, Kinchloe worked the bag. He punched methodically at first, finding his rhythm, and then with increasing force. Seeing the MP's scowling face before him, Kinchloe felt the edges of his vision begin to go red, and abruptly, he struck out with a violence that sent the heavy bag skidding several feet across the floor.

Not pausing, Kinchloe remained alert in his boxer's stance, dancing to and fro on the balls of his feet, his fists striking out at invisible opponents.

"Whoa there, Kinch!" a voice called from behind him. "Those things ain't easy to replace y'know! And now with a war on--!"

A hand on his upper arm caused Kinchloe to pivot suddenly, a right hook ready to take down whoever had sneaked up on him.

"Hey-hey! Kinch! Whoa, son! It's me…Goldie!"

The words slowly worked their way through Kinchloe's senses, and finally registered in his brain. Goldie, or rather, Avram Goldberg, was a good friend, one of the few people who never saw the color of a man's skin, only the character that lay beneath.

"Goldie…I—" Kinchloe looked at the ruined punching bag. "Man, I'm sorry, Goldie. I'll pay you—"

"Pay, shmay! It was an accident. I got insurance. Do me a favor—burn the whole place down, why don't you? I'll retire on the insurance money to a nice cabin by the lake."

Kinchloe grinned. Goldie had never married, and the gym, along with taking care of his elderly mother, was his whole life. Goldie's mother was always nagging him about buying a house along Grosse Pointe Shores near Lake St. Clair. According to Goldie, his father had taken them there once on a Sunday afternoon drive, and his mother had never stopped talking about it.

"Thanks, Goldie. I'll make it up to you somehow."

Goldie waved his hand dismissively. "Money…always with the money. Kinch, my dear _boychik_…how many times must I tell you? Friends take care of each other—like family. And you and your folks…you are like my family. Why, if it weren't for your father—"

"I know, I know," Kinchloe interrupted, rolling his eyes. "You wouldn't be here today."

Goldie slapped him chidingly on the arm. "Hey, none of that! Keep a respectful tone when you talk about your father…a great man, he is. And decent. He and your mother have been good friends to me and my mother for many years."

Kinchloe nodded, but moved away quickly. He had heard this story too many times through the years to want to listen to it again.

Not to be put off, Goldie followed in his wake. "Laugh if you wish, but your father saved my life that night. Those two men—they were nothing but thugs!" His voice took on an incensed, disgusted tone. "They demanded protection money! **_Protection_**!? Protection against **_what_**, I asked them. Protection against **_this_**, they said! And started on me first with the fists, and then with the clubs!" He paused, lost in the horror of the moment. "But your father came along and well…" He stopped. "I'm still here today." Goldie took Kinchloe by the arms. "Kinch…you owe me nothing. It is I who owe a debt—to your father for risking his neck to save me, a Jew." He shook his head. "It is a debt that I shall never be able to repay."

Kinchloe shook his head. "Goldie, you don't owe us anything. Dad's told you a million times, what he did for you, he'd do for anyone."

Goldie nodded sagely. "Yes…because he is that kind of man, a man of compassion, a man who deserves our respect." He gave Kinchloe a long penetrating look. "You are that kind of man, Kinch, a good man, a man of character."

Kinchloe turned away abruptly. "Yeah, sure, Goldie…why don't you tell it to the white cats who run the world? Like the admissions officer at Clair Tech? He was pretty smug about the institute not admitting guys like me in. They didn't care about my character. They didn't care that my scores were higher than anyone else who had ever applied there. All they cared about was the color of my skin."

Even five years after his dreams of attending St. Clair Technical Institute—and every other four-year engineering school to which he had applied—had turned him down, the hurt was there. No longer raw and bleeding, it lay hidden, the scars easily opened. His father encouraged him to enroll at his old Alma Mater, but it did not offer a course of study in electrical engineering. In the end, Kinchloe settled for a local two-year black college.

While it at least offered a vocational certificate in electronics, the course of study amounted to little more than training as a radio and telephone repair man. The one bright spot had been his instructor in telephony. The man had worked for Western Union and knew Morse code forwards and backwards; Kinchloe had been only too eager to learn it from him.

_And where has my training and hard work gotten me?_

"Oh, and let's not forget my job as a lineman for the city's phone company," Kinchloe added with rancor. "I can hear some of my co-workers now, 'What does it feel like, **_boy_**, to have stolen a job from a white man? What's it like…stealing the bread off the table of some poor white child?'" He looked away. "Maybe cats like Buddy Freeman have it right. Maybe I **_am_** being idiot trying to play it straight. Maybe I **_should_** have a talk with the Baxter brothers."

Goldie looked at him with dismay. "Kinch, men like your friend, Buddy, the Baxter brothers, your co-workers…they are all _schmutzes._ All those schools that turned you down…they were wrong, but it's as much their loss as it is yours because they'll never have the chance to know such a fine young man as you."

At Kinchloe's look of utter disbelief, Goldie exploded. "Kinch, how many times must your father and I tell you? No one can make you less than who you are. Such men, they are _golems, _those who cannot think for themselves. Or in your words…they are idiots!" He stopped, studying the younger man, suspecting there was something Kinchloe was not telling him. "What is it, my young friend? What happened today to have brought all this out again?"

Kinchloe turned away, his shoulders slumped. Finally, he faced Goldie and told him what had happened at the recruiting station and his meeting with Buddy Freeman.

Goldie listened attentively, his expression never changing, except when he came to the part about Freeman offering to introduce him to the Baxters. "The man is a _schmutz_, and so are you if you should listen to him." At last, after Kinchloe had told him everything, Goldie sighed and shook his head.

"We were taught since childhood to always obey our elders and persons of authority," Goldie said softly. "What has it gotten us—my people? We are a people without a homeland, despised and resented wherever we go. My family came to America at the turn of the century. I was a boy of ten. We did not speak the language and we did not know anyone. My father had the required amount of money in his pocket to show that we would not be living on the dole—twenty US dollars. It had taken him almost three years to save that amount, plus the cost of the passage across the Atlantic."

Goldie smiled with pride. "My father made something of himself, he did. But always he was an outsider, not just a foreigner, but a Jew. Still, things weren't so bad here. Not like it was back in the old country—Germany. After the Great War, things were not so good there. And then this _schmutz_, Hitler, appeared and things became even worse. My mother and I wrote my aunt and her daughter who had stayed behind. We begged them to leave the country, to come here and stay with us, but they refused to leave their home. They were killed on November 9, 1938—a neighbor wrote us and told us that their deaths were ruled an **_accident_** by the authorities."

He made a fist and glared at nothing in particular. "That night became known as _Kristallnacht_, the night of the broken glass." He looked at Kinchloe, slowly releasing the fist he had made and shrugged, looking tired. "It was a pogrom, one of the worst ever, and marked the beginning of the end for Jews in Germany. People here don't believe what is happening there to my people; they don't believe what is happening all over Europe where the Nazis have invaded. They don't believe because they choose not to believe. But I believe. No, I **_know_** because I read his book, _Mein Kampf. _Hitler means nothing less than to conquer the world and kill all the Jews."

Goldie gave Kinchloe a sardonic smile. "So you see, my dear _boychik,_ the little men like your military police officer don't matter. Their prejudices, their bigotry, their hatreds are as nothing when we have a monster like Hitler and his Nazis to fight. If you want my advice, I say go back to that recruiting station and stand up to him. I will wager that he has no authority to stop an American citizen from enlisting. More importantly, I will wager that Roosevelt—a very wise man—will want all able-bodied men, regardless of color to join the armed forces."

…

By the time he left Goldie's Gym, Kinchloe had convinced himself to do exactly as Goldie suggested—go back to the recruiting station the next morning and this time demand to be let in. He thought about the MP and grinned wolfishly. _Just let that jerk give me a hard time_, he thought. _This time, I'll be ready for him_.

The next minute he was recalling the morning's humiliation. An unbidden surge of anger swelled inside him. Was it not enough for him and his family to be forced to live a life separated in almost every way from whites? That he had to attend an all-black school for twelve years of his life? That while the school's facilities were touted as "separate but equal," he and his classmates had to "make do" with out-of-date textbooks, classrooms that were freezing in the winter and sweltering in the summer, buildings that oftentimes had only one working toilet for the entire school?

He thought of the "Welcome" signs hanging on the doors and windows of local shops, signs that said "Whites Only" and "Colored Entrance in Rear." He stopped on the sidewalk that ran adjacent to one of the city's many parks, momentarily distracted by the happy cries of young children at play. He smiled at the sight of children oblivious of racial differences playing together on the seesaws, swings, and monkey bars.

Just as suddenly, the smile disappeared. He saw a white man walk over to a drinking fountain and wait his turn. However, when the child who had been drinking finally looked up, the man grew instantly incensed that a black child would have the audacity to drink from a fountain reserved for whites only.

"Who do you think are?" the man demanded. "Are you too ignorant to read the sign? It says 'Whites only!'"

The little boy cowered at the big man's angry gestures and words. Kinchloe had enough and walked up to them.

"Excuse me, sir, is there a problem here?" he asked.

"Yes, there's a problem. Your **_boy_** here just drank from this fountain, even though it has a sign that says plain as day, 'for whites only.' What's the matter? Can't that boy of yours read? I could have you **_both_** arrested for this."

"Perhaps it's you who can't read," Kinchloe said quietly.

"What? How dare you insult me, you ni—"

Kinchloe grabbed him by the shirtfront and only just managed not to throttle him. Instead, he pointed to another drinking fountain located about fifteen feet away from the one designated for whites. A sign clearly stated, "For Coloreds Only," and beneath these words was added, "Out of order."

"You see that sign?" Kinchloe asked. "It says, 'Out of order!'"

"Oh, yeah? Well, that's not my problem—"

"No, it never is," Kinchloe said, releasing the bigger man in disgust. "So tell me…just whose problem is it then?" He held his hand out for the small, frightened child. "Come with me, son. Let's go find your folks." The little boy hesitantly took the proffered hand, but in the end went trustingly with Kinchloe. "By the way, my name's Kinch…what's yours?"

"G.W., sir," the little boy said softly. "G.W. Kendricks."

"G.W.?" Kinchloe said quizzically.

"Uh-huh. It stands for George Washington Kendricks."

Kinchloe smiled down at the boy. "That's a mighty big name for such a small boy."

G.W. nodded. "Uh-huh. I know. That's what my daddy always says. But my mama—she says that I'm gonna grow into it one day."

Kinchloe nodded in agreement. "Well, Mr. G.W. Kendricks, from what I saw today, you're well on your way to doing just that."

G.W. beamed up at him. At that moment, he spotted his mother and called out to her. Releasing Kinchloe's hand, he ran excitedly up to where she sat, quietly reading on a bench. Kinchloe stood long enough to watch her bundle her son in a hug, and then went on his way.

The big man's angry face morphed into that of the MP that morning. Kinchloe felt the deep-seated resentment rise again. Maybe Freeman was right. Why **_should_** he bother to volunteer to fight for—maybe even die for—a country that could condone such cruel behavior against a mere child?

Unsure of his feelings, Kinchloe made his way to the nearest bus stop to catch the shuttle to his neighborhood. Along the way, he bought a newspaper and read the latest headlines of the war raging in Europe and the Pacific.

The British were excited that the United States was finally entering the conflict. Several English girls interviewed said they could hardly wait for the arrival of the Yanks and expressed how thrilled they were at the prospect. A few British soldiers grumbled at the girls' comments, but admitted their relief that the Yanks were coming at last.

"Hitler and Mussolini won't stand a chance against an alliance made up of Great Britain and the United States," an RAF pilot opined. "It's just the shot in the arm we all needed. God Bless America!"

A brief article below the fold caught his attention. It told of a black Detroit resident who had just graduated from flight training at Tuskegee Army Air Base, an all-black training unit located in rural Alabama. _A colored army aviator_? Kinchloe wondered. Such an idea had never even occurred to him. His highest hopes in joining the service had been to fight as an infantryman on the frontlines, maybe even putting his knowledge of electronics to good use.

Until that moment, Kinchloe had assumed that the Army Air Corps was closed to blacks, the way everything else seemed to be. He had no illusions about qualifying as a fighter pilot, but he figured that the larger planes would need qualified crews to include radio operators. As he read further, an idea began to take hold.

The newly commissioned lieutenant, 2Lt. David Coleman, was originally from Tuscaloosa, Alabama, but had moved to Detroit as a boy. "My father was an aircraft mechanic," the young officer was quoted as saying, "and I guess I was lucky enough to have been around airplanes my whole life. When I heard that a flight school was being commissioned specifically for Negro aviators, all I could say was where do I sign up?" The officer was a graduate of the Tuskegee Institute, which is where he first heard of the new training program.

The last paragraph of the article stated that 2Lt. Coleman was accompanying Lt. Col. Robert E. Hogan, a combat veteran who had fought with the RAF in the Battle of Britain. They were on a promotional tour to recruit black volunteers for the Army Air Corps. They would be making a personal appearance in Detroit tomorrow night at the National Guard Armory. The article gave a name and phone number to contact for further information.

Visions of fighting the war from the air fired Kinchloe's imagination. As a result, he was surprised when he heard the sound of air brakes, accompanied by the strong smell of diesel, next to him. The bus had arrived. He waited his turn to board, and was about step up off the curb, when he was suddenly grabbed from behind.

"Hey! What's the idea?" he protested. However, the two hard-faced men ignored him and dragged him unwillingly to a black sedan that was parked just behind the bus, its engine running. The back door was open, and although he struggled against his kidnappers, Kinchloe was unable to break their vice-like hold. In the end, he was unceremoniously shoved into the back seat, and the door slammed behind him.

He tried the door, but it did not have any door handles. A smoked glass-partition separated him from the front seat occupants. He banged on it, but again was ignored. Frustrated, he finally gave up and sat back. The sedan's tinted windows precluded his being able to see where he was being taken, so all he could do was worry and wonder.

After a relatively long drive, the car began slowing down and at last came to a stop. He heard the driver side front door open and slam shut. The next instant, the same door through which he had been pushed inside was opened. Unsure of what awaited him, Kinchloe climbed out slowly. He was momentarily dazzled by the bright sunlight and stood blinking for a few seconds. He hoped he was ready for anything, but he was not prepared for what happened next.

"Kinch, my man! I'm so glad you could make it!"

Kinchloe whirled at the sound of the voice—Freeman! Kinchloe felt something inside him snap. He threw a sharp, right cross, and the next moment, Freeman was lying on his backside on the gravel driveway, nursing a badly bruised jaw. Wiping a trickle of blood from the corner of his mouth, he looked up ruefully at Kinchloe.

"Is that any way to greet a pal?"

"**_A pal?_** What kind of a pal hires a pair of goons to grab someone off the street and scare him half to death? If this is some kind of **_joke_**, Buddy—"

Freeman held out his hand to be helped up, but Kinchloe ignored the silent request. Rolling his eyes, Freeman slowly and painfully regained his feet on his own.

"This is no joke, Kinch," he said.

"Then what do you call it?" Kinchloe took a slow threatening step toward Freeman.

Backing up quickly, Freeman held his hands out, palms open. "Now, now, Kinch…none of that. I promise, everything is gonna be explained to you." Dramatically, he waved his arm toward what Kinchloe finally realized was a mansion of extraordinary proportions. It had a long and winding graveled driveway that led to a grand, pillared portico. Ostentatious was the only word that came to mind when Kinchloe took a moment to look it over. He whistled in unconscious appreciation.

"Impressive, huh?" Freeman asked, clapping him on the back. However, at Kinchloe's dark look, Freeman quickly stepped back. "Come on, Kinch…there's someone here who wants to meet you."

"Who?" Kinchloe asked suspiciously.

"Let's just say, a close personal friend."

"No thanks," Kinchloe said. He was about to start down the graveled pathway, when he noticed the same two goons who had snatched him off the street blocking his way. He glared at Freeman who shrugged helplessly.

"I'm sorry, Kinch, but my friend **_really_** wants to meet you. Come on…what can a few minutes hurt?"

Kinch glanced from Freeman to the others and gave a mental shrug. Following Freeman, he wondered what he was getting himself into. _No_, he amended silently. _What is _**_Buddy_**_ getting me into?_

…

End of Part 2


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary**: Kinch meets the local crime boss, and an old flame. Buddy meets some pals of his own.

**Author's Note:** A heartfelt thanks to Doc II for her super beta skills! She did her job; any mistakes are entirely my own.

**RIP Ivan Dixon:** On a sadder note, Ivan Dixon passed away at the time of this writing. An excellent actor and Class-A director, he will be remembered with great respect and fondness by his many fans. Rest in peace, Ivan--you'll always be a hero in my heart.

**Disclaimer:** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!

**Copyright**: February 2008

**Hero's Welcome**

**by Syl Francis**

**Chapter 3**

Freeman led Kinchloe into a large drawing room. At least that was what Kinchloe thought a room of that size might be called. It reminded him of some of the fancier ballrooms through which Fred Astaire and Ginger Rogers had effortlessly danced their way across.

The room boasted floor-to-ceiling windows with heavy brocade curtains, drawn to admit the morning sun. He admired the glittering twin chandeliers that sparkled like a thousand stars above him and reflected off the glossy, mirror-like finish of the marble floor below. He took in the expensive antique furnishings, privately doubting whether anyone ever actually used them.

As they crossed the drawing room, Freeman nonchalantly pointed out the museum-quality oil paintings along the wall, as well as several marble sculptures. "My friend is what you might call a gen-u-wine art collector. He has plenty more stuff in storage some place. Someone said that he likes to rotate it every few months, so he don't have to see the same things all the time."

Even to Kinchloe's untrained eye, the art collection looked impressive, but by the same token, each item could also be a fake. While he had a journeyman's appreciation of art, this was a little out of his league. At last, they arrived at a set of closed double doors where a butler waited patiently. (At least, that was what Kinchloe believed the gentleman in tails and white gloves must be as he had only seen butlers in the movies.)

As they approached the doors, the stoic, expressionless valet, opened them and stood aside. Kinchloe smiled and said, "Thank you."

Visibly flustered at being addressed directly, the butler mumbled a hasty, "You're quite welcome, sir," in very British English.

Kinchloe mentally rolled his eyes. _Whom did Buddy know that employed an English butler?_ He wondered. _And what could he possibly want with me?_

They stepped into a smaller, more comfortable room that Kinchloe instantly recognized as a library or study. This room he could openly admire without hesitation. He envied the floor to ceiling bookshelves, lined with leather-bound books. He wondered if anyone had ever bothered to open and read them, or if like the antique furnishings that he had just seen, they were purely decorative.

Unable to take his eyes off the books, Kinchloe made his way to the bookshelf, searched the titles eagerly, and selected one.

"That's my favorite. Are you familiar with his works?"

Kinchloe spun around at the sound of the disembodied, feminine voice behind him, almost dropping the book he held in his hand. He searched for the source of the voice, but could not find her.

"I said, are you familiar with his works?" This time the throaty voice was attended by a beautiful woman to match it. She was looking up at him from a wingback chair on which she had been quietly reading. Standing, she moved toward him, indicating the book he was holding. "Langston Hughes, I mean."

Kinchloe stared at her. She looked vaguely familiar. Trying to place her, he noted that she was tall for a woman, almost as tall as he. She was dressed simply in a winter-blue cashmere sweater and black skirt. A single strand of white pearls elegantly enhanced her lovely café au lait coloring. Kinchloe was immediately tongue-tied. He always felt a little nervous and shy around girls, which rendered him practically incapable of holding a coherent conversation with the opposite sex. As always, he was powerless to formulate any words.

"Dottie, I told you how shy Kinch was around women." Freeman slapped Kinchloe on the back, sounding amused. "Kinch, this here's the big man's main squeeze—Dottie Williams. You remember her from school, don't you?"

"Dottie--?" Kinchloe suddenly remembered her. He and Dottie had been in the same class year, but in totally different circles. Dottie had always run with the popular crowd, while he had been somewhat of an outsider.

"Buddy, I believe I've told you before, my name is 'Dorothea,' **_not_** Dottie…a name I absolutely detest."

Smiling up at Kinchloe, she raked him with a sultry glance that could have started a three-alarm fire. Walking up to him, she gave him a knowing look.

"James Kinchloe, as I live and breathe. After all these years…you haven't changed a bit."

"You have," he murmured. At her look of surprise, he added shyly. "You got even more beautiful."

She smiled disarmingly at him. "Why, thank you, sir." Nodding at the book in his hand, she added, "Most of the men who walk in here head for the wet bar. You pick up a book. Like I said, you haven't changed." She took the book from him and casually turned the pages. "_Mother to Son," _she murmured. "Probably one of his finest poems…It shows every Negro mother's greatest fear—losing her son to despair."

"A **_poem_**?" Freeman sounded scornful. He took the book from Dottie and read the first few lines silently, his lips moving as he mentally struggled to form the words. At last he shook his head. "Hey, it don't even rhyme." He glanced from Kinchloe to Dottie puzzled. "I thought you said it was a poem. Ain't poems s'posed to rhyme?"

Kinchloe, in turn, took the book from Freeman and returned it to its place on the bookshelf. "Not all poems rhyme, Buddy."

"Oh. Well, who cares about some dumb ol' poem anyway?" Freeman asked. "Give me some smoking hot jazz and something ice-cold and wet to chase it down with any time!" Grinning suddenly, he made a beeline toward the wet bar. "And speaking of something that's 'ice cold and wet'—"

Kinchloe shook his head as Freeman studied the contents of an ice box, quietly humming to himself. Freeman would never change.

"So, um…Dot—um, I mean, Miss Williams--?" Kinchloe began, swallowing a few times. "What did you want to see me about?"

Freeman guffawed at Kinchloe's words. "Kinch, my man, are **_you_** off base. Dottie ain't the one who sent for you--!"

"No…**_I_** sent for you."

Everyone turned at the quiet voice behind them. The English butler stepped aside from the opened double doors, revealing a handsome, well-dressed black man, who stood centered in the doorway. The newcomer was dressed to the nines in pinstripes and spats. His right hand was casually tucked half-in/half-out of his jacket pocket. The left held a lit cigarette that was dangerously close to burning his fingers.

"Thank you, William. That will be all." Dismissed, the butler bowed slightly and slipped out of the room.

The newcomer was surrounded by four bodyguards, all glaring at their surroundings with the same impassive expression; all standing at seeming attention like soldiers on parade. He snapped his fingers and held out his spent cigarette. One of the bodyguards immediately replaced it with a new one.

"Dorothea," he said, giving a slight jerk of his head. She was instantly at his side, hanging onto him. Kinchloe noted with some annoyance that they made quite a handsome couple.

"Theo," she murmured in greeting, kissing him on the cheek.

"Buddy." Theo nodded at Freeman, who looked ready to spill his drink. With a slight, amused grin, he turned to Kinchloe. "And you must be Buddy's friend."

Kinchloe remained silent, opting for a wait and see attitude.

"Theo, this is James Kinchloe," Dottie said.

"That's right, Mr. Baxter," Freeman interjected quickly. "This here's my friend, James Kinchloe…the guy I been tellin' you about. Everybody calls him Kinch."

Theo Baxter—one of the infamous Baxter brothers—had sent for him, Kinchloe realized. But why?

"I don't understand, Mr. Baxter," Kinchloe began. "What do you want with me? Buddy, what kind of tall tales have you been making up about me?"

"Tall tales?" Baxter asked.

"He's just funnin', Mr. Baxter. Ol' Kinch here…he's a barrel of laughs sometimes. Ain't'cha, Kinch?" He laughed nervously as he spoke, punching Kinchloe lightly on the arm. "Why, Kinch here is one of the smartest guys around—colored or white!"

Baxter continued to stare at Kinchloe, taking his measure. At last, he turned to his bodyguards and nodded at them to leave. When they had gone, Baxter walked over to the wet bar and poured drinks.

"How do you take your whiskey, Kinch? Straight or with water?" he asked.

"I don't drink before noon."

At his words, Buddy practically spewed his drink and started coughing violently.

Baxter kept pouring without speaking, but Kinchloe saw that the corners of his mouth had turned down slightly and that his hands shook a little. After Baxter poured the drinks, he looked up at Kinchloe.

"Kinch, I'll overlook what you just said because this is your first day here. But let's get one thing straight…when I drink, I don't like to drink alone. And when I pour a guest a drink, I expect him to drink it."

"No, I think maybe **_you_** had better get a few things straight, Mr. Baxter. First, only my friends call me Kinch, and I only drink with my friends."

"Kinch—" Freeman gasped, but Kinchloe ignored him.

"Second, since I didn't ask to come here, and I didn't come of my own free will, I figure that you're no friend of mine."

"Kinch, what are you sayin'--?" Freeman looked scared to death. However, Kinchloe noticed that Dottie had a certain pleased look of triumph on her features.

"Now, I'm going to walk out that door," he said, pointing, "and I'm going home." Kinchloe started toward the exit when Baxter's voice stopped him.

"Wait! Mr. Kinchloe, please. Don't go just yet."

Kinchloe turned slowly and faced him, surprised by his words.

Baxter shrugged. "I sometimes forget myself. As Dorothea here likes to remind me, I'm not the boss of the world." He grinned suddenly. "One day maybe, but not today." He indicated an easy chair. "Please, have a seat. Let's talk. Afterwards, if you still want to leave, you're free to go."

Kinchloe gave him a suspicious look, but finally shrugged. What choice did he have? Catching Dottie's eye, he was surprised to see a look of disappointment on her face. He wondered if he had done something to put it there.

Baxter picked up his drink, and raising an eyebrow at Kinchloe asked, "Are you sure you won't have anything?" At Kinchloe's nod, Baxter shrugged and sat across from him. "So, tell me, Mr. Kinchloe, what do you do for a living—that is, of course, if you don't mind my asking?"

"It's no secret," Kinchloe said. "I work for the phone company."

"Really? The phone company?" Baxter murmured politely. "Do you enjoy your work?"

Kinchloe nodded and shrugged. "It's a living."

"Tell me…about how much do you make in a year?" Baxter asked.

"Oh…about three thousand a year, minus taxes."

Baxter nodded sagely. "Three thousand a year—a fairly decent wage." He gave Kinchloe a searing look. "Let's cut to the chase, Kinch…I hope you don't mind if I call you Kinch. You see, I **_want _**to be your friend, and I'm offering you my friendship. Do you know what that means?" Answering his own question, Baxter shook his head. "No, I don't think you do. Buddy here says that you're not a player, that you've stayed clean all these years—nose to the grindstone and all that."

"Something like that," Kinchloe agreed, glaring at Freeman.

"And what do you have to show for it?" Baxter asked. "A guy like you…a guy with brains. You should be making twice that amount—three times, in fact! Instead, you're willing to let your white boss work you to the bone, only to tell you you're not worth the same pay as a white man."

Indignant, Kinchloe half-rose to his feet, but was stopped by the gleam in Baxter's eyes.

"And then you have to face the final indignity of being forced to ride home at the end of the day in the back of the bus." Baxter's pointed gaze held Kinchloe pinned in place. "Well…am I wrong?"

Shaking his head, Kinch slowly sank back into his seat.

"Kinch, if you work for me, I can guarantee you'll clear that amount and more—each month!"

At Kinchloe's look of shock, Baxter nodded and sat back comfortably on his easy chair. Kinchloe noticed that Baxter was working very hard to keep a casual expression; however, a smug look of triumph briefly flitted across his face.

Freeman reached over and slapped Kinchloe on the knee. "You're in, Kinch! See…I promised I'd put in a good word for you, and like I always say…my word is gold, man!"

"Three thousand a month," Kinchloe said with a shake of the head. "Sounds real nice." Holding Baxter's eyes, he asked bluntly, "And just what would I have to do to earn that kind of money? Strong-arm the local businessmen? Maybe break up their places?" He looked at Freeman. "Or knock a few heads around like what happened to Pete's cousin Ernie?"

Freeman held his arms up in mock surrender. "It ain't like Whitey hasn't done the same thing to our black brothers in the past. Kinch, us colored folks gots to stick together—not join their army and go fight their wars for them!"

Kinchloe stood up. There was little point in responding to such ignorant comments. "I'm sorry, Mr. Baxter. But I'm not your man." He nodded at Dottie.

"Dottie…I mean, Miss Williams, it was nice seeing you again."

"Now, Kinch…who said anything about knocking heads?" Baxter spoke reasonably. "I'm a businessman. My brother and I run one of the biggest operations in Detroit, and we have interests all over the state." Baxter stood. He was getting caught up in his own story. "My brother and me…we started with nothing. Our folks were killed in the big flu epidemic back in 1918—you're probably too young to remember it—but that's neither here nor there."

He waved his drink, spilling some of it. "What we have, Kinch, is even more important than money. D'you know what it is?"

Kinchloe shook his head.

"I'll tell you what it is. It's respect. My brother and I have respect. You ask anyone in Detroit who the Baxter brothers are and they'll tell you. You know why? I'll tell you why." He spoke without letting Kinchloe respond. "Because we earned it. Anyone messes with one of the Baxter boys, he messes with the both of us. It's always been this way, ever since we was kids. After our folks died, I took care of my little brother and he took care of me. We watched each other's backs, looked out for each other. Soon, no one messed with us. Why? Because of respect, that's why."

Kinchloe did not say anything, only listened. Privately, he knew that whenever the Baxter brothers' name was mentioned, others reacted to it not so much with respect but fear.

Local businessmen feared the Baxters and their influence in both the city council and state house. Rumor had it that they held several councilmen in their pockets and at least one state legislator who routinely passed through legislation that favored the Baxters' building projects.

More to the point, people feared the Baxters because of their strong-arm tactics. If they wanted to possess something—a business, building, tract of land—anything—woe unto anyone who stood in their way. _Just ask Pete and his cousin Ernie_. If the Baxters wanted Ernie's place, then they would resort to whatever means necessary in order to gain control of it.

The sad thing was when the Baxters moved into a neighborhood, a decidedly criminal element soon followed close behind. Before long, what was once a quiet, decent neighborhood was no longer a safe haven after dark.

_The Baxters respected? _**_Vilified_**_ was closer to it._

"In the end, Kinch, race and color and education don't matter. Nobody really cares about black or white—the only color that matters is green…the color of money! 'Cause if you have money, you have respect. And if you have respect, you have power. And power is the key to success."

Nobody said anything for a while. The only sound in the room was Baxter's heavy breathing from the exertion he had worked himself into. Finally, Dottie cleared her throat.

"Theo, perhaps you should tell Mr. Kinchloe what you want him to do?" Her quiet voice had a calming effect on Baxter.

"Yeah…yeah. You're right, Dorothea. I should tell him, shouldn't I?" Taking a few calming breaths, he gulped the last of his drink and sat down. "Kinch, we're opening a new club on West 79th in the next few months. A real classy joint—top acts, Louis Armstrong, Ethel Waters, Cab Calloway—you name it! And Dorothea here, she's got a voice like an angel, a regular Billie Holliday. I've got real plans for Dorothea and for the club. It's gonna be class all the way, baby…strictly high class."

"What does that have to do with me?" Kinchloe asked.

Smiling broadly, Baxter sat back comfortably. "I want you to run it for me."

"You want me to run a club for you?"

At Kinchloe's expression, Baxter did not try to keep in check the look of satisfaction that settled on his own hard features. "You sound surprised, Kinch."

"I am…and I'm flattered," Kinchloe admitted, "but I don't know the first thing about running a club. I'm a phone repairman…a telephone lineman."

"No, you're a smart guy who is doing the best he can—living by Whitey's rules," Baxter returned. "Which, if you don't mind my saying…isn't quite so smart. Come work for my brother and me, and you'll make a living by **_our_** rules!"

"I-I don't know what to say, Mr. Baxter. It's a real opportunity, I know, but—" Kinchloe shrugged uncertainly.

At the younger man's hesitation, Baxter smiled magnanimously. "But you're thinking about going to work for Uncle Sam, eh…? I tell you what, Kinch. Why don't you sleep on it? Say twenty-four hours? Give me a call tomorrow, same time, and give me your answer. What do you say?"

Kinchloe nodded and stood. "Twenty-four hours." The two men shook hands, and Kinchloe knew he had been dismissed. Catching Dottie's eyes, he saw a fleeting look of respect that quickly passed. As he turned to go, he wondered what was going on in her mind.

After Kinchloe and Freeman left, Dottie turned to Baxter. "So, what do you think?" she asked.

"I think that in twenty-four hours our new friend either agrees to my proposal, or he won't live to see the twenty-four hours after that. And that goes double for that loser, Buddy Freeman."

Dottie hastily took a gulp from her highball in order to hide her reaction.

* * *

Dropped off a few miles out of their way, Kinchloe and Freeman stood on the curb and watched resignedly as the black sedan drove off. Of course, Freeman expressed his vocal displeasure in no uncertain terms.

"You lousy jerks!" Freeman yelled, aiming an obscene gesture at the disappearing sedan. Abruptly, he kicked the corner lamppost in frustration. "We've gotta be at least ten miles from home."

"More like fifteen," Kinchloe replied, only half listening. He was still trying to digest Theo Baxter's proposal. He shook his head. There was something about the address on West 79th Street that bothered him.

After almost a half hour of steady walking, Freeman had managed to return to his usual devil-may-care demeanor. At last, his excited voice broke through Kinchloe's musings.

"Kinch, what did I tell ya, baby? You're a made man! Once you're in with the Baxters, you're in all the way! Ain't nobody gonna mess with ya!" Freeman threw his arm around Kinchloe's neck. "Man, you'n me, pal…tonight, we're gonna paint this ol' town red!"

Freeman's words brought Kinchloe back to earth with a resounding thud. He finally knew what had been niggling at him about the Baxters' proposal. Shaking himself free from his friend's grasp, Kinchloe hurriedly crossed the street. He needed to talk to Pete.

"Hey, Kinch!" Freeman's voice followed him. "What's your hurry, man? We got us all night to celebrate!"

Kinchloe did not bother to turn and answer. A few moments later, Freeman grabbed him by the arm and pulled him up short.

"What's the prob, Kinch? If it's money, don't let it worry you. Tonight's celebration is on me!" Grinning, Freeman flashed a huge wad of bills. "Just a little bonus from Ol' Theo…a finder's fee, you could say."

Kinchloe whirled on him. "Don't flash your blood money in my face, Buddy! You're nothing but a double-crossing skunk! I told you I wanted nothing to do with the Baxter brothers, but you wouldn't listen! Now, they expect me to work for them...run their club for them…**_be_** like them!"

Freeman studied his friend, knowing that Kinchloe was upset with him, but not clearly understanding why. After all, hadn't he just gotten him one of the cushiest job offers in the whole city of Detroit?

"Kinch…what'sa matter with you? You're gonna get to work alongside Dottie—man-oh-man, talk about a cream-filled dessert!" At Kinchloe's look of utter disdain, Freeman almost felt like giving up. "Kinch…don't you get it? You're working for the Baxters now. You'n me, pal…together…like it was before."

Kinchloe shook his head. "No, Buddy…it's you who doesn't get it. I am not now or ever going to work for the Baxters. The address on West 79th—where the club is supposed to be set up. Don't you recognize it?" At Freeman's shake of the head, Kinchloe explained. "Remember what Pete told us about his cousin Ernie's coffee shop? How he'd been beat up by some of the Baxters' goons?"

"Yeah? So?"

"So…his cousin's place is located on West 79th Street. Your pals the Baxters have either pushed him out already, or they're planning to sometime soon." He glared at Freeman. "You lied to me, Buddy. This morning at Pete's bar, when he brought up his cousin, you said you didn't know anything about the raid on the coffee shop. You knew about it all the time, didn't you? You were even involved in it."

Freeman shook his head in denial, but before he could reply, Kinch plowed on.

"What happened, Buddy? No, don't tell me. I can guess. You were let out of stir a few weeks early and immediately crawled over to the Baxters—"

"No, Kinch…it wasn't like that. I swear—!"

"Yeah…crawled over there on all fours, just like a well-trained lapdog and did their bidding!"

"All right!" Freeman yelled, angry. "It's true, everything you said. I got paroled a few weeks early. The Baxters arranged everything, hired me a lawyer and all." At these words, he suddenly became eager to explain. "See? Like I told ya…the Baxters took good care of me. If it wasn't for them, I'd still be serving out my sentence on that chain gang."

"But at what price, Buddy? Beating up on your own friends? People we grew up with?"

"I had to do take the deal, Kinch, don'tcha see?" He looked suddenly sorrowful. "My…um, my mother's sick. You know she's always been a bit sickly. I had to get out…to help out at home."

Kinch rolled his eyes at the blatant lie. "Buddy, if you'd stayed in and served out your sentence, you would've been free and clear once you got out. This way, you're never going to be free of them. The Baxters own you."

"It's not all like that, Kinch. Honest…there's a lot of great stuff, like money, clothes, cars, women."

"What about Ernie's coffee shop?"

"Okay, okay!" Freeman said exasperatedly. "You don't work for the Baxters without getting your hands a little dirty now and then."

"So, Pete was right…you were there that night when his cousin was beaten half to death."

"Yeah, I was there! But I didn't have nothing to do with what happened to Ernie, I swear! I was only there to break up a few things, y'know? A warning, just to scare him…make him see that he don't mess with the Baxters. But he was there, waiting for us. The other guys…they had to teach him a lesson…don't you see?"

"I see all right," Kinchloe said quietly. "I see that you're no friend of mine. Don't bother coming around anymore, Buddy. And tell your pal, Theo Baxter, that I'm not interested."

"What?" This time Buddy looked really scared. "Not interested? Nobody tells Theo Baxter they're not interested. Not if they want to stay healthy…**_and_** alive."

"Well, I'm telling him. And if I were you, Buddy, I'd get out, too. Before it's too late."

This time when Kinchloe walked away, Freeman did not follow him. Watching his friend disappear into the lengthening shadows, he shook his head and tsked.

_I just don't get you, Kinch. Easy street's just waitin' 'round the corner, and you'd rather tote that bail for Whitey. Well, that ain't for me, pal. Buddy Freeman knows the score. To be a winner, ya gotta be part of a winning team. And the winningest team in the big Motor City just happens to be the Baxter brothers' organization. _

Making up his mind, Freeman hailed a cab. Knowing that he was about to cross a point of no return, he climbed in the backseat. "West 79th Street."

"You got it, pal."

Fifteen minutes later, Freeman made his way across the back parking lot of a shuttered, used furniture store. It was part of large mercantile building that also housed a small café and used clothing store. While the latter had a "Going out of business sign" on its store front, the café was still in business. The darkened first floor indicated that it was closed for the night.

Freeman looked up at a particular darkened window on the second floor. The shades were drawn, but he was sure that the occupants were probably home.

Opening the backdoor of the used furniture store, Freeman stepped into the gloom. He couldn't see much, but he sensed a vast emptiness. The owners had loaded every last stick of furniture into a moving van and hightailed out of Detroit once the Baxters had indicated how much they wanted the store.

_Ditto for the clothing store owners_, Freeman thought with just a touch of pride, having had something to do with this last little bit of persuasion.

"About time you showed up."

"Yeah…thought you'd chickened out." A second voice spoke in low sneer.

The voices had startled Freeman, almost making him jump out of his skin. He recognized Luke and Benny, two of the Baxters' men. The next instant, he recovered his usual aplomb and sauntered up to them. "Not to worry, boys…not to worry. Ol' Buddy Freeman is here. Now why don't we get this little show on the road?"

"Yeah, guys. We're all saved now," a third voice spoke up. It was Ray, Theo Baxter's number one enforcer. "With Freeman the freeloader here, how can we possibly lose?" The others joined him in mocking laughter.

"Come on, fellas…!" Freeman whined. "Don't do me like that. I mean, we're all pals here, right?"

The laughter stopped abruptly.

"Yeah, Buddy…we're all pals here," Ray said. "But you…you haven't passed the final test yet."

"Test? Hey, come on, fellas…I ain't very good with tests."

"That's too bad, Buddy, 'cause the boss insists." With these words, Ray pressed a cold, heavy object onto Buddy's hand—a gun.

Buddy blanched. "B-b-but…I ain't never used one of these things before—"

"There ain't no time like the present, Buddy!" Luke piped up.

"Yeah, man…it's real simple," Benny mocked. "Just point and shoot. Even **_you_** can't screw that up!"

"Okay, that's enough!" Ray interrupted. "Let's go. It's time Ernie learned some manners."

**End of Part 3**


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary**: Dottie offers Kinch a ride.

**Disclaimer:** Hogan's Heroes is owned by Paramount, Viacom and others; this is an original story that does not intend to infringe on their copyright. Feedback is welcome!

**Copyright**: February 2008

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Hero's Welcome

**by Syl Francis**

**Chapter 4**

Hurrying to the bus stop, Kinchloe spotted the bus's red tail lights receding in the distance. "That's. Just. Perfect. I'm gonna kill Buddy," he murmured. Checking his watch, Kinchloe saw that it was past five o'clock, and he had promised his mother that he would be home for dinner at six. **_And_** he still needed to stop by Pete's place. It looked like he'd have to disappoint his mom tonight.

"Is there anything **_else_** that can go wrong today?" he asked no one in particular.

"Oh, I don't know," a feminine voice said from behind him. "I rather enjoyed the day, myself."

Kinchloe whirled around, searching. Dottie sat behind the wheel of a convertible, its top down despite the frigid December temperatures. Kinchloe whistled appreciatively, taking in the automobile's beautiful styling. "A 1939 Studebaker Champion." He smiled at her. "I am very impressed, Miss Williams. The cost of gas alone—holy cats!"

Dottie laughed. "Be careful with that kind of sweet talk," she teased. "It's enough to turn a girl's head."

As if remembering to whom he was speaking, Kinchloe was suddenly struck dumb—his usual state when addressing a beautiful girl—and found himself clearing his throat an excessive number of times.

"Oh, Kinch," Dottie said in mock annoyance. "You make me want to throw something." At his look of surprise, she relented and smiled. "Get in. I'll give you a lift." Pointing with her chin in the direction that the bus had traveled, she added, "Unless you were planning on running after it."

Smiling his thanks, Kinchloe climbed in on the passenger side. "Thanks, Miss Williams—"

"And, please, Kinch, none of this Miss Williams stuff…call me, Dorothea." She pulled away from the curb as she spoke.

Kinchloe shook his head. "I'm afraid that I don't know Dorothea Williams well enough to address her by her first name. On the other hand, I once knew a Dottie Williams. She was a nice girl as I recall. Real popular, and not **_too_** stuck up."

Dottie glanced at him, her expression strangely sad. "I no longer know that girl, Kinch. I haven't for a long time."

"I'm sorry to hear that, Miss Williams…I mean, Dorothea."

They rode in silence, neither knowing how to reach beyond the awkwardness. At last, Dottie asked, "Would you just care to drive around with me for a while, or is there somewhere in particular you'd like me to drop you off?"

"The Horse Head Pub on West 75th Street."

If she was disappointed that he had opted not to spend the night driving around with her, Dottie didn't show it. Instead, she kept her eyes studiously forward, concentrating on the early evening traffic. When they came to a light, she sensed Kinchloe's eyes on her and immediately felt a thrill shoot through her. As the light turned green, she let her hand fall casually to her side where it "accidentally" brushed against Kinchloe's. Again, she experienced a tingling sensation race up and down her arm.

When they stopped at another light, she glanced over at him, and catching his eye, deliberately placed her hand over his. As his fingers gave hers a light squeeze, Dorothea felt as if she was sixteen again. Hesitantly looking into each other's eyes, they both smiled a bit shyly. They jumped as a car horn suddenly honked behind them, and burst out laughing when she hurriedly put the car in gear.

"I feel like that time Officer Mike caught me stealing an apple off Old Man Tobias' fruit stand," Kinchloe said.

Dorothea laughed. "I think Mr. Tobias deliberately put those apples out so that the poor kids in the neighborhood had something healthy to eat."

"Yeah, he was a great guy," Kinchloe said, smiling at the memory. Animated by the subject, he asked, "Hey, do you remember the ice cream parlor on West 71st Street?"

"Are you kidding? Mary, Grace, and I practically lived there on the weekends. We used to meet there for sodas and then catch a movie at the Bijou. We were the Three Musketeers back then."

Kinchloe recalled that Dottie, Mary, and Grace had been the three most popular girls in his school. His eyes taking on a faraway look, he smiled. "I remember one year, I saved what I made from my paper route for two weeks straight until I had enough to order the banana split special. It was so beautiful, I almost couldn't eat it." He chuckled. "I didn't want to ruin it." He grinned, embarrassed.

"So…did you eat it?"

"I **_inhaled_** it!" he said with a laugh. "I was sick for almost two days afterwards." He caught her eye, and abruptly, they each averted their gaze. The wall of awkwardness had come up again. Kinchloe cleared his throat and fidgeted in his seat. He suddenly didn't know what to do with his hands.

"Kinch…I'm happy that I'm going to be working with you. Sometimes it's nice just to see a friendly face in an audience. I—"

"I'm not taking the job."

"What? Kinch, you can't mean that. You don't say '**_no_**' to the Baxters, especially Theo. Take my word for it. I know what I'm talking about."

"I know what they're like, too," Kinchloe said quietly. "That's why I won't work for them."

"But that's crazy!" Dottie said. "Kinch, people who say 'no' to the Baxters have a funny way of ending up face down in the Detroit River or even disappearing entirely."

"The Baxter brothers are locusts, Dorothea. They swoop into the old neighborhoods and destroy everything in their path—families, friendships, cultural ties. They suck out a neighborhood's lifeblood, leaving nothing but an empty husk. What used to be a neighborhood, filled with people who knew and cared for each other, is replaced by strip joints, honky-tonks, drugs, and prostitution—no place to raise a family. I won't work for people like that." He looked at her. "You haven't told me why you stay with him. A girl with your talent…you could make it anywhere."

She snorted at his words. "Talent? About the only polite thing you can say about my so-called talent is that I can sing on key. Believe me, Ella and Billie aren't going to be losing sleep over my 'talent' any time soon."

Kinchloe shook his head. "I remember your singing in the choir. You were really good back then."

"Past tense, Kinch. I told you, I'm not that girl anymore." She sighed. "I don't even know who I am. Back then, tomorrow seemed so clear and bright. Well, tomorrow's here, and it's nothing as I imagined it would be." She paused. "Why do I stay with him? Because I can't make it on my own. **_And_** I'm too tired or just too lazy to try." She shrugged. "I know, I should be ashamed to admit it, but it's the truth." She shrugged. "I need him, Kinch. He takes care of me.

Kinchloe was struck by the similarities between Dottie and Freeman's words. They each believed that they couldn't survive without being on the Baxters' dole. Ironically, what they interpreted as the Baxters taking care of them was in reality an enforced dependence. He didn't feel he was in any position to judge her, so he simply nodded in understanding.

The next moment he spotted a familiar landmark and asked her pull over. "I can walk from here," Kinchloe said.

"Don't be silly," Dottie said. "I can drop you off at the door."

With a shake of his head, Kinchloe said, "You shouldn't be seen anywhere near the Horse's Head Pub, Dorothea. It's too dangerous. When Theo finds out I won't play ball with him, he's gonna send his goons after me. He won't understand why you were seen with me at a place that's a known hangout for people who hate his guts and would do anything to get in his way."

Dottie nodded at the wisdom of his words. She pulled to the nearest curb and waited for Kinchloe to get out of the car.

"It's been nice seeing you again, Dottie…I mean, Dorothea," Kinchloe said awkwardly.

Dottie nodded in return. "Yes…it's been real nice, Kinch." She looked away momentarily, and then tentatively reached her hand out to him as he opened the passenger door. "Kinch?" He turned back to her, and she was suddenly drawing him nearer.

Taken by surprise, Kinchloe's first instinct was to pull away, but the next second, he threw caution to the wind and took her in his arms. They kissed for a seeming eternity, deeply and longingly, believing that this was probably a final goodbye.

Not knowing how he ended up on the curb next to the car, Kinchloe felt a deep emptiness in his chest as he waited for her to drive off.

Without looking at him, Dottie started the car, keeping her eyes carefully forward. She spoke softly. "You almost made me remember her again, Kinch."

"Who?"

"Dottie."

Pulling away from the curb, she drove off into the night.

* * *

As soon as Kinchloe entered the Horse's Head Pub, Pete waved him over from behind the bar. A jukebox in a far corner played the soft strains of Billie Holliday singing the blues, her heartbreak palpable in the smoke-filled room. Seeing that Kinchloe was heading toward them, Pete turned to one of the regulars sitting at the bar and pointed him out.

"Hey, Mike! What do you know? Look who decided to show up—what's this, Kinch? Twice in one day? I thought the joint was too lowbrow for a genius like you." Pete broke up into helpless gales of laughter. "Sometimes I really crack myself up."

Mike grinned a hello at Kinchloe, his eyes dancing merrily. "How's it goin', Kinch?" he asked. "Staying out of trouble, I hope. If not, you know I'll have to you run in." He emphasized this last by patting his hidden holster in a mock-threatening manner.

Smiling, Kinchloe offered Mike his hand, and the two men shook. "It's good to see you, Mike."

"Kinch, you know how you said you wanted to join up? Officer Mike here already has. He's reporting for duty next week—U.S. Army Air Corps!"

"They agreed to give my precinct a couple of weeks first to adjust personnel," Mike explained. "We've been losing guys pretty steadily since Pearl Harbor."

Mike Sullivan was a police officer from a long line of police officers: His grandfather had risen to the rank of precinct captain. His father, the first Officer Mike, had walked a beat in the neighborhood for twenty-five years, providing a familiar and comfortable presence to the area residents. He had hauled in drunks to sleep it off, offered solace when needed, and knocked heads when nothing else worked.

More importantly, he had kept the neighborhood kids—black and white—on the straight and narrow, talking to them when they needed a good talking to, listening when they needed someone to talk to.

Now, Mike and his two brothers were following the family tradition. Mike, the eldest, had already made detective. His two younger brothers were on the fast-track for promotion to plainclothes.

In the background, Billie's battle-scarred voice came to a heartrending end. Several of the bar patrons stared into their drinks as if they had just lost their best friend. To everyone's relief, the Glenn Miller Orchestra suddenly burst on the scene with "In the Mood," a lively, toe-tapping tune. Soon, several couples were on the dance floor, trying out the latest swing steps.

"Timmy and Patrick submitted their paperwork to their precincts the day before yesterday," Mike was saying. "They'll be in uniform in another couple of weeks—Timmy's joined the marines; Patrick the navy."

"With the Sullivan brothers fighting for Uncle Sam, I bet this war'll be over by next Christmas," Pete said. "You'd better hurry and join up, Kinch, if you want a piece of the action."

"Cut it out, Pete," Mike said. "There's gonna be plenty of war for all of us before this thing's over."

"Good luck, Mike," Kinchloe said solemnly. He turned to Pete. "Is there somewhere we can talk?"

"Does it have anything to do with Buddy or the Baxters?" Pete asked darkly. Before Kinchloe could reply, he added, "'Cause if it does, you can talk in front of Officer Mike here. He knows the score."

Kinchloe held Pete's gaze for a long moment, the reference to "Officer Mike" not escaping him. Apparently Mike was here on official business, and not just stopping by as he went off shift.

Kinchloe met Mike's eyes. The young detective appeared relaxed and laidback, but Kinchloe knew how deceptively misleading that could be. Mike's wide-eyed altar boy looks had too often lulled drunks and armed robbery suspects into a false sense of complacency, leading to their arrest.

"If that's how you want it, Pete."

"It's not how he wants it, Kinch," Mike said quietly. "It's how it is. We've been after the Baxters' organization for a long time. Pete's cousin is the first witness who's been willing to turn state's evidence against them. If you know anything that'll be of help…?"

Kinchloe nodded, accepting a beer on the house. He took a long swallow before putting the mug down. Finally, he loosened his shoulders and told them what had transpired that afternoon, of Theo Baxter's offering him a management position in his nightclub. Pausing, he told them the location of the club—West 79th Street.

"Ernie's place?" Pete asked. "It's hardly big enough to hold thirty people!"

"By itself," Mike agreed. "But think about it. Your cousin's place is located between a secondhand clothing store and a used furniture store. Those two places have enough square footage to make a good-sized club. The last time I looked, they both had 'going out of business' signs on their storefronts."

"All someone would have to do was knock down a few walls, and they'd combine all three storefronts," Kinchloe agreed.

"The Baxters." Pete spat out the word like an obscenity. "So they've already squeezed out the other store owners, and now they're after Ernie's place."

"With Ernie's place smack in the middle…it's no wonder the Baxters want it so bad." Kinchloe took a drink from his mug.

Mike shrugged. "There's no proof. Neither owner will talk. Mr. Papadopoulos, the owner of the used furniture store, even told me to mind my own business. He said that unless his going out of business was against the law, that I should concentrate on catching bank robbers and leaving law abiding citizens alone." He sighed. "There's not much I can do if no one will talk. I only wish that I could close down the Baxters' operation before I reported for duty next week."

"If I get my hands on that Buddy Freeman—" Pete began darkly.

"—You'll call me, so's I can haul his backside into jail," Mike finished for him. Raising his eyebrow at Kinchloe, he added, "For your kidnapping."

"You'll haul him away all right—" Pete said, fuming, "—in pieces!"

"Look, never mind all that," Kinchloe said. "What about Ernie? Is he okay? Maybe you'd better check on him!"

"You're right." Pete went to the wall phone behind the counter and dialed.

While Pete waited for someone to pick up on the other end, Mike said thoughtfully, "You know, we've never been able to make any charges stick against the brothers. They're too well entrenched, got their fingers in more pies than a baker."

"Ernie and his wife Edith live right over the coffee shop," Pete said. "We have someone downstairs watching the place for insurance."

"One of your guys?" Kinchloe asked Mike.

Mike shook head. "We've lost too many guys already to Uncle Sam. We're down almost fifty percent in manpower. They're even calling back some retirees. Dad got a letter yesterday, asking him if he'd come back—for the 'Duration.'"

"If it isn't one of your guys, then who?"

"Someone from the neighborhood. Pete and a few of the local businessmen have formed a group of neighborhood lookouts. They've been taking turns staying over at Ernie's place, helping keep an eye on things while he recuperates."

At last, Pete indicated that someone had answered.

"Edith? It's me, Pete! Is everything all right? Edith?" He listened intently. "Edith, what's going on?"

The next instant a bloodcurdling scream came over the phone. Pete held it out so that the others could hear. "No! Stay back! No, please…don't hurt us! Please!"

Loud gunshots suddenly rang out from the other end.

"Edith!" Pete turned to the others. "The line's gone dead."

**End of Part 4**


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary**: Kinchloe is faced with a tragic loss.

**Disclaimer:** See Part 1

**Copyright**: See Part 1

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Hero's Welcome

**by Syl Francis**

**Chapter 5**

* * *

Kinchloe, Pete, and Mike ran out the back way and scrambled into Mike's unmarked car. They peeled out of the parking lot, tires screeching, siren wailing, and headed toward West 79th. Mike radioed for backup as he expertly steered the police cruiser through traffic.

Kinchloe sat in the backseat, running the possible scenarios through his head. He closed his eyes trying to erase the mental picture of the middle-aged couple lying in a pool of their own blood. Memories of Ernie and Edith Nilsson flashed in his mind: Ernie, a big Swede with a souvenir limp from the Great War, giving Kinchloe a friendly smile and wave when he stopped by after a hard day of climbing telephone poles. Edith, her long blonde braids tied back, pouring him a tall, ice-cold glass of milk and serving him an extra large piece of her apple pie, while exclaiming, "You're much too thin, Kinch. You need to find a nice girl to fatten you up!"

He prayed they weren't too late, but feared the worst.

* * *

Mike coasted in, headlights off. Getting out of the car, he pulled out his sidearm and waved the others back. "I suppose it would be a waste of time to tell you to stay here while I go in and take a look around?"

"Ernie and Edith are family," Pete said.

"We're wasting time," Kinchloe said urgently. "They could be hurt in there."

Mike nodded, resigned. "Let's go."

The three men moved in soundlessly, Mike in the lead. They went through the coffee shop's small kitchen, which Edith usually kept spotless. Tonight, it was turned upside down—pots and pans were strewn haphazardly, broken glass lay scattered across the floor. There was more, but they didn't have time to check it all out.

Mike crossed through to the main dining room where they found more destruction: It was littered with broken tables and chairs. They searched the place for any signs of Ernie or Edith. About to head upstairs, Kinchloe suddenly stopped and held up his hand.

"Listen!" he hissed. After a brief moment of absolute silence, he heard it again—very soft, almost inaudible, but definitely the sound of someone moaning in pain. "There! Behind that table!" He hurriedly picked up and tossed an overturned table aside. There, huddled on the floor, lay a dark form in the shadows. It moved slightly and groaned again.

At that moment the headlights from a passing car cut across the dining room, momentarily illuminating the supine figure.

"Goldie…?" Kinchloe barely got the name out as he knelt down to help his friend.

"Take care of him." Mike said. He spoke in rapid-fire, staccato sentences. "I'm checking upstairs. Pete, give Kinch a hand."

"But—"

In the distance they heard the wail of approaching sirens.

"About time," Mike muttered. "Tell 'em what we've found so far." With a final look over at Kinchloe, hunched over Goldie, he headed upstairs, taking them two at a time, not bothering for stealth.

Kinchloe did what he could to make his elderly friend comfortable. "Goldie, what are you doing here?" He spoke more to himself than expecting any response.

"Kinch…?" His name came out in the slightest of whispers.

"Goldie…don't try to talk," Kinchloe said softly, trying to tamp down the rising feeling of panic in his throat. There was a dark, spreading stain on Goldie's shirtfront. When Kinchloe touched it, his hand came away wet.

Goldie gave him a piercing, knowing look. "Too late, my young friend." He reached up weakly and patted Kinchloe on the cheek. "Four men…" He closed his eyes. "One was your friend—no, not your friend—an acquaintance of yours, Buddy Freeman. Such men have no friends…only acquaintances." He opened his eyes and gazed tiredly at Kinchloe. "He had a gun, Buddy did…he didn't want to use it, but—"

Goldie shrugged philosophically.

"Another one…'Ray' he was called—insisted. Said it was a **_test_**." Goldie tensed and closed his eyes against the sudden pain. After a moment, he let out a sigh and slowly relaxed, his body falling limp in Kinchloe's arms.

At Goldie's words, Kinchloe felt like he had been punched in the stomach, but he didn't have time to think about Freeman.

Goldie's eyes fluttered open, glazed with pain. "Imagine…an old _shlump_ like me…being a test."

"You're not an old _shlump_, Goldie. If anyone's a fool here, it's me. I—"

"You are not a fool, Kinch. You are a good friend…and a blessing to me...the son I never had."

Kinchloe fought uselessly against the threatening tears. "Goldie…don't try to talk. Everything's gonna be okay…We'll get you to a hospital. You'll see."

Goldie gave him an affectionate smile filled with disbelief. "Of course…"

The sirens stopped outside with a screech of brakes. The next moment it seemed as if every police officer in the precinct was in the small coffee shop.

"We need help over here!" Kinchloe shouted, waving for attention.

A uniformed officer and two ambulance attendants were immediately at their side.

"What happened?" the officer asked.

"He said there were four men," Kinchloe said, refusing to leave Goldie's side. The ambulance attendants were forced to work around him. "He identified one of the men as Buddy Freeman. Another one was called Ray."

"Freeman, eh?" the officer muttered. "He just got outta stir a coupla weeks ago. That punk must like the view from inside a cell. As for Ray…he's the Baxters' main enforcer. First cousin, I think. Word on the street is he'll do anything the Baxters tell him to, even commit murder. Anything else?"

Kinchloe shook his head. He watched as the medical team worked on Goldie. At last, they stopped their ministrations and sat back on their heels. The lead attendant looked at Kinchloe and shook his head.

Kinchloe felt an icy hand clutch his stomach. He watched helplessly as the ambulance attendant slowly covered Goldie with a sheet.

"I'm sorry…there was nothing we could do. He lost too much blood."

Pete was instantly at Kinchloe's side. "I'm sorry, Kinch." His expression was a mixture of guilt and grief. "I told him he had no business volunteering for neighborhood lookout--!"

Kinchloe glared at him. "What? You let an old man like Goldie take a risk a like that?"

"**_Let_** him? I couldn't **_stop_** him! You know what he was like—stubborn, determined, loyal. He insisted. He said that he was part of the community, and would take part in helping out Ernie." He paused, holding Kinchloe's eyes. "Goldie told us that someone helped him a long time ago, and taught him that to have freedom and peace of mind, we had to stand up to thugs and bullies, or be willing to live in terror. He said that if we didn't stand together against the Baxters, then we deserved to lose our neighborhood, our businesses, and our homes." They both looked down at the still, shrouded form. "He was a brave man, Kinch."

Kinchloe nodded. "I know."

At that moment, Mike shouldered his way through the crowded coffee shop. Detectives and uniformed officers were busy gathering evidence, taking photographs of the crime scene, and generally getting in each other's way.

"Ernie and Edith?" Pete asked.

Mike shook his head. "Missing…I'm sorry, Pete."

"What happens now?" Kinchloe asked.

"We've put out all-points bulletins for Buddy Freeman and Ray Brooks—the Baxters' first cousin," Mike said. "That's about all we can do for the time being."

"What about Ernie and Edith? Their lives could be in danger!" Pete protested hotly. "We know the Baxters were behind this. I say we go to their place and—"

"Pete, we have no evidence to tie the Baxters to this."

"No evidence? Buddy Freeman was involved!" Pete exclaimed. "That's all the evidence **_I_** need."

"Pete's right, Mike. We know that Buddy and Ray were involved," Kinchloe said. "They're known accomplices of the Baxters."

"They're our best lead right now," Mike conceded. "But you've gotta understand…just because we know they work for the Baxters doesn't mean that the Baxters put them up to this—"

"You've gotta be kiddin'!" Pete yelled. "Who else has the money and manpower to do this? Who else wants this place so bad they're willing to murder Goldie and kidnap Ernie and Edith? Tell me, Mike—who?" Reaching the boiling point, Pete kicked a broken chair out of his way and stomped off."

"Kinch…talk to him," Mike said. "He's only heading for trouble."

"Can you blame him?"

"No…but he's my friend. I don't want to see him get hurt or killed. Do you?"

Kinchloe shook his head. "I think I know someone who may help."

* * *

Kinchloe knew he was taking a big chance, but it was the only one they had. After they'd dropped off Pete at his place, Mike had driven to the Baxters' residence and let Kinchloe off at the foot of the long drive leading toward the house. Hopefully, the young detective had parked his unmarked cruiser in some inconspicuous spot. No telling if any of Baxters' goons were patrolling the grounds and might spot him.

Straightening his shoulders, Kinchloe rang the doorbell. Within a few minutes, the same fancy butler that had answered the door earlier stood before him. Kinchloe wracked his brains and quickly came up with a name—William.

"Yes?" The butler looked down his considerable nose at the late night visitor.

"William, how are you tonight?" Kinchloe smiled in greeting.

Raising his eyebrows slightly at Kinchloe's familiarity, William gave a slight nod. "I am quite well, thank you…Mr. Kinchloe, I believe?"

"Great memory you've got there, William. I bet you get all kinds of visitors here. Must be hard to remember all the names."

William made no comment as none was obviously expected. He simply waited impassively.

Kinchloe cleared his throat. "I was…um, wondering if Mr. Baxter is in."

"I am afraid that neither Mr. Theo nor Mr. Arthur Baxter is in at the moment. Do you have an appointment?"

"Um…no, not officially. Mr. Theo and I spoke this afternoon. I wanted to talk to him about the offer he made me."

"I shall tell him that you stopped by, Mr. Kinchloe. Good night." With that William made to close the door. Kinchloe quickly blocked it before it was completely shut.

"Wait…is Miss Williams in?"

"Miss Dorothea has retired for the evening and is not receiving visitors."

Kinchloe pushed his way in and was soon standing in the mansion's imposing entrance foyer. "I'm afraid that I'm going to have to insist, William. Now, if you won't go get her for me, I'll just have to go find her. This is a big house…don't make me look for her."

"Sir, if you do not vacate the premises this minute, I shall have to call the local constabulary."

"Call the 'constabulary,' huh?" Kinchloe replied, mimicking William's accent and tone exactly. Grinning at the staid butler's reaction, Kinchloe added, "Now, William, why would you want to do that? Aren't any of the bodyguards around?"

William didn't answer.

"So that's it, isn't it? The Baxters and their bodyguards are all gone. It's only you and Miss Williams."

"Sir…if you insist on trespassing—"

"That's quite all right, William."

Both men looked up. Dottie stood on the grand staircase, simultaneously looking vulnerable and determined.

Kinchloe swallowed a sudden lump in his throat as he stared at her. She had thrown an opaque wrap over her nightgown, a sheer negligee with a fur-lined collar. Again, he was struck by her beauty. Despite the fact that her hair was slightly disheveled and she wore no makeup, she could have just stepped out of the cover of a fashion magazine.

Unbidden, the memory of their kiss washed over him. He again felt her in his arms, trembling with desire. With a strength he didn't know he possessed, he pushed the memory away.

The hair and nightgown showed that Dottie had obviously been in bed. On the other hand, Kinchloe didn't know what to make of her red-rimmed eyes. Had she been crying or drinking or both?

She reached the bottom of the stairs and dismissed William with a nod. The butler bowed slightly and stepped out of the room. Dottie led the way into the library. She paused before the shelves and gently ran her fingers along some of the well-loved titles. Abruptly, she walked to the wet bar. About to pour them both a drink, she paused and looked questioningly at him.

"Scotch, straight up," he said.

Nodding, she poured their drinks and handed him his. They touched glasses and each took a sip. Dottie indicated a nearby settee, and they sat without a word.

At last, Dottie broke the silence.

"Why are you here, Kinch?"

"I wanted to talk to Mr. Baxter. I thought about what you said…that it would be foolish of me to turn down his offer. I mean, a guy like me…what kind of chance do I have in a white man's world, right? I figure, why not make a grab for the brass ring? How many opportunities like this are gonna come my way again?"

Dottie looked away. She took a small sip from her drink, avoiding his eyes.

"Well? Aren't you happy? We'll be working together like you wanted."

"Like I wanted," she repeated softly. Setting her drink on a side table, she stood and head down, crossed the room. She opened a pair of French doors that led to a small balcony and walked outside.

Curious, Kinchloe followed her. He watched her from the open the doorway for a moment and then joined her. Tentatively, he reached for her, gently placing his arm around her waist.

The next moment she had her arms around him and was kissing him with a fervor that was almost violent.

"Oh, Kinch, what's to become of me…of us? Everything's suddenly so wrong. I've been pretending for so long—"

"Pretending what, Dottie? What's wrong? Tell me."

Dottie clung to him a moment longer, but at last let him go. She took a step away from him, her back to him.

"I think you already know. That's why you're here, isn't it? Theo and his brother—" She stopped.

"What about Theo and his brother, Dottie? What do you know?"

She shrugged. "You tell me…"

Kinchloe grabbed her from behind and spun her around to face him. "No more games, Dottie. No more pretence. A good friend of mine—a man who was like a second father to me—is dead. Two others, Ernie and Edith Nilsson, are missing—probably kidnapped."

"Kidnapped? Kinch, what does that have to do with me…with Theo?"

"The Nilssons happen to own some very valuable property that Theo wants—property where he intends to build his new night club, property that the Nilssons have no intention of selling."

"And you think that Theo had something to do with their going missing?"

"Before he died, my friend Goldie identified Buddy as the gunman."

"Buddy?" Her eyes widened in sudden fear.

"Yeah, our old pal, Buddy. I'm afraid that this time, it's gonna be the electric chair for him." Kinchloe placed his hands on her shoulders and shook her slightly. "There were four men there tonight—Buddy, Ray, and two others. Where are the Baxters, Dottie? Where have they taken the Nilssons?"

Shaking her head, Dottie pulled away from Kinchloe and hugged her arms to herself. "I don't know, Kinch. If I did, I'd tell you…I swear!"

He stared at her for a long moment, and at last, nodded.

"Okay, I believe you." At her look of gratitude, he added, "But you might know something you're not even aware of. Think, Dottie…is there anywhere that they might've taken them?"

Dottie shook her head in denial. "I'm sorry…I just don't know. Theo never talked business in front of me, and frankly, I liked it that way. The less I knew, the safer I felt. I—" She stopped, her eyes wide in dawning understanding.

"What is it? You remember something."

She nodded. "Yes…something Buddy said once in passing, almost a joke. I remember 'cause Theo overheard him and, next thing I knew, Buddy was sporting a broken nose and bloody lip."

"What happened? What did he say?"

Dottie shrugged, shaking her head. "He said that if you wanted a one-way ticket to paradise, then you should board at Pier 82. Then he laughed, said that some people discovered too late that their tickets were to a much **_warmer_** place. That's when Theo walked in."

"Pier 82…that's in the warehouse district, isn't it?" Kinchloe asked.

"I—I guess." Dottie sounded uncertain. "Kinch, you're not going there alone are you? If what you said is true, and they've already killed someone tonight, they haven't got anything to lose."

Kinch took her in his arms, comforting her. "Don't worry, I won't be alone. Goldie and the Nilssons have a lot of friends—friends who aren't going to let what happened tonight go unpunished." He kissed her gently on the forehead. "I'll be back. I promise."

* * *

As soon Kinchloe left, Dottie hurried upstairs. She had no intention of remaining here a minute longer than she could help. She dressed quickly and threw a few items into a suitcase. She checked her purse, counting what little money she had—a couple of hundred. It was enough for a few weeks, but if she were to escape Theo's grasp, she'd need much more. Fortunately, Dottie knew exactly where she could get a few thousand.

Slipping out of her bedroom, she ran lightly down the hall to Theo's room. Checking to make sure that neither William nor the other servants was nearby, she eased into the darkened master bedroom. Taking a moment for her eyes to adjust, she crossed over to a large, gilded painting. It was a typical bucolic scene: A shepherd and his flock grazing in a meadow, a quaint village in the background.

Dottie had taken immediately to this particular painting. While Theo saw it as just another piece of his considerable collection, Dottie found herself strangely drawn to it. The peacefulness of the scene, the total innocence of the setting set her heart to yearning for simpler times—days that didn't seem quite so complicated. She had asked Theo if she could have the painting moved to her room, but he had laughed at her.

Theo then showed her why the painting took up such a place of importance in his room. Reaching up to it, he tugged gently, and to her surprise, the frame swung away from the wall, like a door. It was then that she saw the safe.

In the weeks that followed, she finally discovered the safe's combination. Although Theo had the combination changed periodically, he had a problem with memorizing the new set of numbers. It usually took him a few days before he finally had the combination down. And, despite warnings from his accountant, he usually kept a cheat sheet in his wallet until he no longer needed it.

Six months ago, while Theo was taking a bath, Dottie sneaked into his room and copied down the latest combination. As far as she knew, he hadn't had it changed since that day. Hopefully, the combination she'd copied down was still good.

Hurrying to the painting, Dottie swung it open and quickly dialed the safe combination. With a satisfying 'click,' the lock gave way. She opened the safe and pulled out several bundles of hundred dollar bills that she already knew were banded together in sets of five thousand dollars. Counting five bundles, she carefully put the others back, camouflaging the missing bundles.

Feeling time slipping away and her increasing danger, Dottie closed the safe and replaced the painting. Stuffing the bundles of cash into her large pocketbook, she hurried to the door. Physically shaking, she checked the hall and flew back to her room. Grabbing her suitcase, she made her way down the back staircase. Knowing her life depended on her successfully leaving the mansion without being detected, she left through the back door and crossed the short breezeway to the detached garage.

Tossing the suitcase in the small space behind the driver's seat, Dottie climbed into her '39 Studebaker. With a sigh she turned on the ignition.

Before she could back out of the garage, a dark figure climbed into the seat beside her. A thrill of fear shot up her back as she felt something hard and cold press against her temple.

**End of Part 5**


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary**: Kinchloe and Mike follow a lead; Dottie and Pete meet.

**Disclaimer:** See Part 1

**Copyright**: See Part 1

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* * *

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Hero's Welcome

**by Syl Francis**

**Chapter 6**

Kinchloe sat tensely in the passenger seat of the unmarked police cruiser, a silent witness to Mike's expert driving. He swallowed as Mike guided the cruiser through several darkened hairpin curves. He tried not to think about the sheer drop awaiting them on the other side of the flimsy guardrail.

When they came to a reasonably straight stretch of road, Mike took a moment to radio his precinct and inform them that he was heading toward Pier 82 to check out a lead. Glancing at Kinchloe, he spoke softly. "It's been too long, Kinch."

"Yeah…I know."

"I'm really sorry about Goldie. He was a great man and didn't deserve what happened to him."

"Yeah…he sure was." Kinchloe felt numb. Goldie's death had not quite sunk in, yet.

Mike chuckled abruptly. "Remember how we all used hang out at his gym after school? Me and my brothers, you and Buddy, a couple others? He let us all work out and learn the ropes. Never charged us a dime."

"Goldie was that kind of guy…real swell. But now—?

"But now he's dead," Mike said bluntly. "And I swear, I'm gonna find the bums that killed him."

* * *

A heavy mist was rolling in from the river as Mike maneuvered the cruiser onto the waterfront area. Passing Pier 75, he shut off the headlights and coasted in. He stopped at Pier 80.

"Okay, I walk from here," Mike said.

Nodding, Kinchloe was about to get out and follow him, when he felt a hand on his arm.

"Uh-uh, Kinch. Not this time. I need you to stay by the horn while I recon the area."

"Mike, they killed Goldie—"

"And they're possibly holding the Nilssons against their will. I don't intend on charging in guns blazing. If I see anything, I'm gonna signal you. I want you to call the dispatcher and tell him to send the cavalry PDQ. Think you can handle it?"

"Pretty damn quick, huh?" Kinchloe nodded reluctantly. "Yeah…I can handle it." He studied the radio setup and quickly figured out how to operate it. "Is there some kind of code I need to use?"

"Don't bother with that…'Car 18 needs assistance at Pier 82' should send the troops." Mike reached in and shook hands with Kinchloe. "Thanks, pal. I only hope things don't come to that."

Kinchloe nodded. He watched, his nerves jumpy, as Mike disappeared into the myriad shadows. He wondered how he'd be able to spot a signal from Mike if he couldn't even see him.

After what seemed an interminable wait, Kinch spotted a sudden match flare. The signal! He grabbed the push-to-talk hand microphone and called for help. "Car 18 needs assistance at Pier 82—over!"

A voice crackled over the receiver. "Unknown caller, repeat message."

"Repeat…Car 18 needs assistance at Pier 82!"

"Car 18, you are not following proper radio procedure. What is your location?"

Without transmitting, Kinchloe yelled, "Pier 82, you idiots!" Controlling his anger, he activated the hand mike and repeated the message, a few choice words ringing silently in his head. "I repeat--Car 18 is in trouble! We're located at Pier 82. Officer Sullivan has gone to investigate the warehouse located there."

Abruptly, an idea came to him, and before he could change his mind, he added, "I think I heard gunshots, and Officer Sullivan is out there alone. Now…are you going to send help or not?" _That should get them off their butts,_ he thought smugly.

However, his momentary triumph was short-lived. As soon as Kinchloe released the push-to-talk button, he heard a squawking noise. A crackling, broken voice was finishing a sentence: "…Repeat location."

Kinchloe pounded his fist on the dashboard. He'd obviously talked over the other person's transmission. "Dammit!" Mike needed help, and it was his job to get it to him. Taking a deep breath, he struggled to remain calm and again transmitted the message for assistance. This time when he released the talk button, he was met by a short silence.

The next instant, the calm voice of the central dispatcher came over the air. "We copy, Car 18…shots fired at Pier 82. You require assistance. Stand by…radio units are on the way."

Kinchloe closed his eyes. "Finally…!"

Message delivered, Kinchloe clambered out of the car and sprinted in the direction that Mike had disappeared. Mike wouldn't have signaled for help if he hadn't seen something. That could mean he'd spotted the Nilssons or maybe even Buddy Freeman and the Baxters. As he ran, Kinchloe's common sense warred with his conscience.

_What do you think you're doing, James Ivan Kinchloe? You completed your task. You got the message through to the police dispatcher just like you were supposed to._

"Yeah, but now, I gotta help my friends," he replied defiantly.

_Oh, really? And just who do you think you are—Captain America?_

"Last I checked…ol' Cap was a blond, blue-eyed white cat."

_Okay, then…what about Captain Midnight?_

"Never heard of him_, _but the name sounds like he's a pretty cool cat."

_Face it…you're an idiot._

"That too." Ignoring common sense, Kinchloe headed toward possible danger. "Let's hope God is on the side of idiots."

* * *

"Wh-who are you?" Dottie didn't dare turn and face her assailant.

"Never you mind that, sister…Look, I ain't got nothing against you, but your boyfriend is responsible for my family's kidnapping and the murder of a good friend of mine."

"What do you mean?" Dottie's voice was a husky whisper.

"Don't try to con me, lady! You know exactly what I mean!"

Dottie nodded, her head bobbing up and down in quick, staccato movements. "What are…what are you going to do with me?" Somehow, she managed to get the words out.

"Let's not talk about that now," he said. "Come on…drive!"

"Where?"

"To wherever you told Kinch my cousin was being held."

Nodding, Dottie carefully backed the car and pulled it out the main gate. They drove wordlessly for several minutes, Dottie nervously keeping her eyes forward, too afraid to look at her attacker. At last, they came to a red light. As they waited for it to change, another car pulled up next to them. It was overflowing with young people, too many for the car to carry safely. Her unwanted passenger quickly jammed the gun against Dottie's side, effectively hiding it from prying eyes.

"Don't try anything stupid, lady…I'd hate to blow a hole through you."

Unable to get any words out, Dottie just nodded in acknowledgement.

A couple of the young men in the other car spotted her and began trying to get her attention. "Hey, gorgeous! My buddy and me are reporting for duty tomorrow morning! How about you making our last night as civilians a memorable one?"

"Yeah, babe! You'd be performing a real patriotic service for Uncle Sam! Whadaya say?" The light changed at that moment, and the other car roared off into the night, trailing the passengers' good-natured laughter.

Dottie breathed a sigh of relief. Straightening her shoulders to settle her nerves, she turned and faced him. This was the first time she had a real good look at him. She took in his less than threatening appearance, as well as his somewhat oversized middle. Realizing he wasn't exactly the monster she had imagined him to be, she felt a sudden rush of self-confidence.

"Listen, you…I've had just about all I'm going to take—"

"Hey…who's got the gun here? I'm warning you, lady—"

"Oh, you don't scare me," Dottie snapped. "At least, not anymore." She shook her finger at him. "I bet you're one of Kinch's friends. If so, I'm also willing to bet you're as straight an arrow as he is. You'd no more pull that trigger than he would."

"Oh, yeah?" He made a threatening move with the gun, pointing it in her general direction. "I wouldn't bet on it! Now drive!"

Dottie gave him an exasperated pout, but did as ordered. Angry, she floored the gas pedal. Tires spinning, they took off, accompanied by the smell of burning rubber. Not to be put off, she spoke. "Look, whoever you are…the least you can do is tell me your name. I mean, this is ridiculous. You can't call me 'lady' or 'sister' all night long. And I sure can't call you 'pudgy guy with a gun'."

"Pudgy guy--?" He gave her a hurt look and quickly glanced down at his considerable middle. "You think I'm pudgy?" He plucked at his shirt. "It's this shirt, isn't it? I told my wife it made me look fat." He paused. "You think it makes me look fat?"

"Are you going to stop pointing that thing at me?" she countered.

They glared at each other for a moment. Then with a shake of the head, he lowered the gun and placed it on his lap.

"Thank you." Her words were liberally sprinkled with a layer of frost. They drove on, neither saying a word.

"Pete." He said it softly.

"Excuse me?"

"My name's Pete. And, yeah, Kinch and me…we're good friends. I've known him for a long time."

"Well, Pete, it's nice to make your acquaintance...under the circumstances. I'm Dorothea—" She stopped. "No…not Dorothea—Dottie. And I'm also good friends with Kinch."

"Dottie, I'm sorry about the…you know." Pete indicated the gun. "When I saw poor Goldie lying there on the floor, bleeding…dying, only to find out my cousin Ernie and his wife were missing, I guess I went a little crazy."

"I understand how you feel, Pete," she said. "Look, do you still want me to take you to the warehouse? It could be dangerous."

"I have to do this, Dottie. Ernie and his wife are family. And Goldie…they just don't come any better." He shrugged. "Sometimes a man's gotta take a stand and do what's right." He paused, adding to himself, "Funny…that's almost exactly what Goldie said..."

A few minutes later, they turned into the warehouse district. "Pier 82 should be coming up," she said, pulling over. She turned off the ignition. "I think it'd be safer if we walked from here."

"We?" Pete protested. "Lady…there's no 'we.' I'm not letting you risk your neck for—" The sharp report of a single gunshot echoed along the line of warehouses. The two sat frozen momentarily. Before the sharp sound had died out, the two scrambled out the car and headed in the direction the shot came from.

_Just like Hopalong Cassidy in a Saturday afternoon matinee_, Dottie thought wryly. _We should both have our heads examined._

Her sense of self-preservation suddenly took over after running headlong in the direction of danger, and Dottie pulled up short. A few seconds later, Pete stumbled up next to her, gulping for air, clutching his chest. Bending at the waist, he placed his hands on his knees. The waterfront was eerily quiet, the only sound that of his painful wheezing.

"Why…why are we stopping here?" Somehow, he got the words out.

"Because they've got guns over there, and if I know Theo and Ray, they won't hesitate to use them on us."

"I figured that already," Pete managed. "But I'm still goin'."

Dottie sighed in exasperation. "What is it about you men always ready to fly into the face of danger? First, Kinch and now you…honestly, soon there won't be any young men left in Detroit 'cause they'll either be fighting overseas and getting killed, or they'll stay and kill each other over something stupid."

However, Pete wasn't listening. With grim determination, he set off slowly, still out of breath and struggling for air. Dottie watched and shook her head.

"I guess I can't let you go on alone like that." She stomped her foot in a fit pique. "Men! I'm gonna wash my hands of every last one of you when this over."

**End of Part 6**


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